Wonders of the Written Word
by Doomstalker
Summary: One writes R/A fanfiction and another finds out about this.


**I don't own Hetalia**

**Written as a challenge at anonymous AHP Fest. Request "7-8, plot-bunny: Russia|(/)America. One writes R/A fanfiction and another finds out about this. Trolling ensues. H!"**

**Warning: You can find lots of similar fanfiction at or elsewhere. Authors who recognize their plots and heroes, please, don't get offended! All above is just a biased opinion of Alfred, after all. ^^**

**Many thanks to my translator and beloved friend Skein, my wonderful beta Emerald-Leaves (who was very kind to offer her help with beta-reading the English version), and my pen pal NekoKayia for all the support. And, of course, MneOrden for all the talks about Rus/Ame!**

* * *

><p>America stared at the monitor, mortified. And couldn't stop blushing. More than anything he wished to look away or close his eyes, so as not to see this outrage, even at the cost of running into a wall and getting amnesia. That'd be good, to forget this... THIS!<p>

Shameful weakness episode, sure. But.

Sure, any hero has a weak side yet usually it's something sorta cool, rare, and mysterious like kryptonite or some such... NOT a badly written pr0n with him, America, and Russia as the main actors.

The tendency of fanfictional Alfred to act in an unthinkable, shameful way, a goddamn whore in heat… Well, the make-believe Alfred acted like a real slut (a lady of pleasure may take offence with this comparison — not everyone would fall that low, in the end). Alfred was Russia's bitch and enjoyed that. Russian bitch!

America reread the place where he, dressed in naughty lingerie, stood on all fours, barking and fucking furiously with the Russian. Saying in the process such things that even Nantucket of the real America was cringing and shrinking with shame.

It was too much, and the blonde ran back to fanfiction index with a hasty mouse click. Choosing the next story, he was careful to read the summary first, but found nothing bad in it. Just one word — "shotacon" — was a bit suspicious... America decided that it's sort of "lots of shooting present" warning and bravely loaded the beginning chapter. And promptly closed it. In the tenth paragraph sixteen-year-old Ivan got to pleasuring the nine-year-old Alfred, who the author endowed with rabbit ears and tail.

In another hour America was horrified to find out that he, the only super-nation, the best country in the world, was almost always under Russia. In three more hours Alfred knew he was hardly ever on top. Well, in one fic of fifty he was. Maybe. If he got lucky.

Worse than that, almost all of his citizens— for whatever reasons— believed him, Alfred F. Jones, to be a whore and made him crave humiliation, the more the better. Like it wasn't enough to make him gay, get him under Russia at every opportunity, describe him as a bitch with bad sexual habits. Now he gets to be a masochist. Fine. Just fabulous.

There were things even worse, though. Like stories with him and England or Canada. Why on earth their fans got the idea that he, America, would harbor warm and tender, non-platonic feelings towards his brothers (and Arthur WAS his brother, even if the bastard refused to be called such), Alfred couldn't fathom. He felt ill even thinking of him and Matthew... or Arthur... Ewwww.

Alfred gulped trying to get rid of nausea.

Yes, Russian games didn't look like the worst case scenario now, one had to admit... And, to think of it, Braginsky was sorta kinda well... attractive. Or even, very... attractive. Especially in that military uniform of his... yes.

America sighed dreamily but resolutely chased away all improper thoughts.

Sure, that fictional Russia was very creative, too. Alfred, being of Puritan upbringing, had a hard time fighting off the burning sensation from his over-heating ears, but could not help reading further and further. Those things the Russian said and did, oooh, they were deeply offensive... yet another shocking scene left Alfred sitting with the sweet ache in the groin.

After a week of an R/A diet — and America had gulped down quite a **lot** of such fanfiction — it became utterly clear that hacking, DDoS-ing and CAPSLOCK-ing were of little to no use. The proud and honorable name of America was marred, and Alfred couldn't do anything about it. His own citizens (!) were brazen enough to lecture him and declare that they lived in a free country and thus were free to write as they wished, so if someone didn't like such stories very much, then (s)he could omit fanfics rated higher than K+. And one of the Russian readers was straight enough to say that his, America's, opinion was just biased criticism, and America was free to take this opinion of his and shove it up his own a...

The rest of the phrase was in Russian but even his profound knowledge of Russian obscenities wasn't enough to decipher all the intricacies of meaning. Nevertheless, Alfred understood enough to get insulted. Deeply, just to be on the safe side. Those Russians kept inventing, and this a-word was obviously a neologism.

And what hurt the most was _he could not stop reading!_ Sure, no one forced him. Just the idea of these insolent stories, their sole existence made him wish to just go bang his head on the wall, but... know thy enemy, and he had to. Had to know his enemy face. Or some other body part, that got more prominent in that story of thirty-two dirty chapters of pure PWP.

Half-way through the part where a vodka bottle came handy in a slightly... unorthodox way, Alfred was struck with a brilliant idea. All he had to do is just start writing some fanfics himself! Then he'd show all these dumb-heads what REAL American-Russian relations are REALLY like. Everyone would get it loud and clear how wrong they all were and all this nonsense would stop.

The very first of Alfred's fanfictions was removed at requests of angry, angry readers — for excessive violence and obscenity.

"And you thought we were in Korea to sniff flowers, you fuckers," grumbled America as he read yet another comment, this time from some pro-Korean pacifist. "Fuck, I didn't even use a third of all those swears Braginsky does. What the fuck? Why is shoving a pipe up an ass okay, and my story _isn't_?"

Upon a bit of thinking, America decided it was time for a change in tactics. He switched to gen. Yet those spoiled brats weren't appreciative and called his writing dull, and him a dumb guy who had no head for politics. Such cheekiness put him off even more. He, America, had a bad head for something? Anything? They must be kidding!

Idiots. No use to argue with idiots, Alfred said to himself (this excuse was always used by England in his conversations with America — not to admit his own utter incapacity, obviously), and came up with an epic fanfiction with himself The Splendid as the main hero, saving the world heroically with a Wonder-Woman. Ivan was sent to cemetery in the very first chapter, which caused an outcry from his fangirls. Needless to say, all reviews the story got were negative and no reader bothered to go further than the first chapter.

Then, Alfred had his second brilliant idea.

Well, if you really thought about it, the Russian was getting shit no less than him. Those fanfics slandered Braginsky too, it was just he wasn't depicted as a slut, but rather as a crude sadist. With a very inventive and perverted imagination, though. But really, Braginsky wasn't like that. So, the objective was to try and free one's own name from blame with an adequate description of Braginsky, too. And of their... romantic relationship (America blushed at the thought, and his heart skipped a beat). If he could show the best sides of him, America, and Russia... without any perversions… or, well, with just a little bit…

Alfred blushed again and started typing rapidly.

"Eating well?" a considerate question came from Russia, taking a seat nearby.

Alfred crinkled his nose — he had more than enough of Braginsky at the conference table where the Russian, for four long hours, had been trolling (for a lack of better definition) all and every brilliant American project (and proposition). Quietly, Alfred decided that his next fanfiction (and this fanfiction thing was addictive... he had gotten a knack for it quickly and even acquired a beta-reader) that his next story would be about Russia seeing the light and brilliance of all American plans, and applause whenever a new idea was made known. The revenge would be sweet, no doubt. And Alfred was already half-way through the plot, pondering in some coffee shop, when Braginsky made his untimely entrance.

"Don't'cha see?" America sank his teeth into the hamburger again and chewed, ignoring the ever ironically raised pale eyebrow of his steadfast Nemesis. No good would come of this conversation; the Russian surely was in a trolling mood again, like he had nothing better to do— or no better amusement.

"_He can try to troll me as much as he pleases_," Alfred was smirking internally. "_Just yesterday he had wolfed down a cheeseburger, and then asked for extra fries, no complaints. If he starts on the harmful fast-food industry, I'll shove the photos I took right under his nose! My mobile camera came handy... Then he'd squirm_!"

The gloating fantasy was interrupted by an even, quiet, and a very smug voice. "Chew thoroughly, comrade," Russia smiled softly and pushed a glass of Cola closer to Alfred. "I've just dropped by… with an academic interest, so to say… моя прекрасная подсолнечника."

Alfred was busy taking a sip, and choked, startled. Braginsky kept eyeing him with sincere curiosity, and smiled all the while America coughed, trying to clear his throat.

"W-what did you call me?" asked Alfred weakly, staring with wide eyes at the serene Russia.

"What, is something wrong?" Russia feigned wonder, fluttering his long eyelashes. "I thought you liked it?"

"Why did you think I like..." America started indignantly but stopped short. Alfred didn't know how he managed to get it, but he saw it clearly — in Russia's eyes, smirk, or just his pose –Braginsky knew. Knew everything.

Nonetheless, Alfred tried to keep a poker face: "No idea what you're talking about."

"Really?" Russia smiled again, widely. "Can you imagine, I did not understand it at first, what exactly this mysterious 'подсолнечника' was. You know, even my own do not mangle Russian words like that."

America wondered if he'd gone to hell — that assumption explained easily enough the red-hot burning of his ears and cheeks.

"By the way, I didn't notice the degree of your romanticism, either," the Russian continued, clearly enjoying the situation. "Everyone makes stories where I bang you with my pipe or vodka bottle through every possible orifice. But you are inclined to depict me as a shy virgin or a huge cuddling teddy bear. Oh, speaking of bears," the violet eyes sparkled with mirth, "I can get you my Olympic bear as a gift, how about that, _da_, Alfred?"

The American sniffed without answering and stared at the napkin which he snatched mechanically to wipe the spilled Cola from the table, now crumpled in his nervous fingers.

"I wonder why it is always me who falls in love with you? Not vice versa? And what is more mysterious — why do I fall head over heels when I see that you look like a sunflower? Can you explain me that?" Ivan propped his prominent chin up with a fist and stared thoughtfully at his chatty company. "Where does it come from, this certain knowledge of my... mhrm... dendrophilia? And, why is it invariably me, Ivan, who gets to woo you, and in the dumbest ways possible, at that?"

"It's not always you who gets…" Alfred cut off his burst of protest, realizing that he'd gotten himself trapped with no way out.

"Oh, I see, now, I see... your idiocy and narrow-mindedness just didn't let you understand your own feelings," Braginsky was nodding now, and squinting in bliss, as if he was sun-bathing. "However, even taking in mind your tendency for silly acts, it is me, not you, who gets drunk as a fool because of unhappy love. Well, did you ever try to drink five bottles of vodka in a row?"

Alfred felt like he could not take it anymore. He rose abruptly, making the table shake. And immediately, his wrist got clenched tightly with something like a vice. America pulled and twitched to no avail— Russia held tight.

"Let me go, you…!" the words stuck in Alfred's throat, again. Ivan kept smiling, but not derisively, but bashfully, somehow... his cheeks reddened a bit and the violet eyes still sparkled playfully.

"Do not leave," Russia reddened a shade deeper. "I did not say I don't like your stories."

* * *

><p><strong>1) The phrase "<strong>**моя****прекрасная****подсолнечника****" gets all Russians to laugh their heads off — even at the most touching & tender R/A moments. First of all, the words "my beautiful" ("****моя****прекрасная****") have the female gender endings which clashes laughably with the weird warped "****подсолнечника****" word — cuz every "sunflower" has male gender in Russian speech. (Yes, you got that right, Russians discern gender even in flowers, and there's male, female and neutral one). The Russian readers are actually driven into fits of snickering with this mysterious "****подсолнечника****". Yes, sunflower is indeed called "****подсолнечник****" in proper scientific-like language, yet many ppl don't call it that — using instead a more simple and short word: "****подсолнух****". Simple, short, and utterly unromantic (IMHO).**

**2) Dendrophilia is a kind of deviation when you feel attracted towards plants in a mildly disturbing way. By the way, Braginsky is prone to hugging little slender birches. And his "Topol" missiles, too. (See "Topol" at wiki: ****The RT-2UTTKh «Topol-M» (Russian: РТ-2УТТХ «Тополь-М», NATO reporting name: SS-27 Sickle B[3], other designations: RS-12M1, RS-12M2, RT-2PM2)[4] is one of the most recent intercontinental ballistic missiles to be deployed by Russia (see RS-24), and the first to be developed after the dissolution of the Soviet Union****).**

**3) The 1990s were years of decay for Russia. The country had been literally drowning and loosing itself in everything Western. So it's questionable who had mind-fucking games with whom then…**

**4) The Olympian bear — there's a word-play there. Russians call the beast "Olympiisky Mishka» where Mishka (****Мишка****) is a short for "Michael". And all bears in Russia are known as Michaels. It's their traditional nickname. So the Olympian one is a Teddy by the name of Mike, basically. Da. The symbol of 1980 Olympics in Moscow.**

**5) Russians can swear like you wouldn't believe. The language lets construct whole sentences out of swear words, conveying meaning even with one obscenity, modified and conjugated expressively. See the Wiki article "Russian mat" for reference.**


End file.
